


in sickness

by janewestin



Series: cosmos [2]
Category: The Devil Wears Prada (2006)
Genre: F/F, One Shot, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-10
Updated: 2019-11-10
Packaged: 2021-01-26 17:22:14
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,214
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21377746
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/janewestin/pseuds/janewestin
Summary: Turns out Miranda has a nurturing side, after all.
Relationships: Miranda Priestly/Andrea Sachs
Series: cosmos [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1541275
Comments: 25
Kudos: 251





	in sickness

**Author's Note:**

  * For [JustLikeAPapercut](https://archiveofourown.org/users/JustLikeAPapercut/gifts).

> takes place in the universe established in my prior story Gravity! no need to read that first if you don't want to. it's 10 years post DWP. a little deleted scene from Miranda's POV with minor tweaks to the Gravity storyline.
> 
> cw: contains light mention of medical procedures
> 
> (Thank you to JustLikeAPapercut for the inspiration - chapter 2 part 5 of their vignette collection Something Short and Painful!!)

She normally doesn’t get annoyed at the sound of phones, mostly because hers chimes constantly. But Nigel’s goes off three times in the span of as many minutes during the quarterly budget meeting, and it’s right in the middle of her defense of an additional $200,000 for the Emma Stone feature. She bristles. Shoots him a glare, which he misses, because he’s surreptitiously checking his phone.

She keeps talking, preparing to double the glare when he finally deigns to look up, but she doesn’t get the chance. His face has gone dead pale.

He’s on his feet. “Excuse me.” 

What is he _ doing? _Irv was threatening a ten percent cut to Bespoke and he hasn’t even had a chance to oppose it. 

Irv looks just as startled as she feels, but Nigel is already gone, the door closing softly behind him.

*

His assistant doesn’t know where he went, just that he left at a near-sprint. She calls him. It goes straight to voice mail. Sends a text: _ I talked Irv down to seven percent. Where are you? _

She’s back at her desk when her phone buzzes. She picks it up, reads his message. Freezes.

_ Andy’s in the ER _.

*

She doesn’t wait for Roy. She has her second assistant order an Uber Black and sweats the fifty minutes it takes to get to Flushing. New York Presbyterian is shabbier than anything in Manhattan. If Andrea requires admission, she will have her transferred to Mount Sinai. Or Langone, at the very least. 

“You didn’t have to come,” Nigel says, in the waiting room. He’s anxious. Pacing.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” she says irritably, even though she knows it’s true. She hasn’t seen Andrea since dinner at the Modern, although Cassidy talks about her constantly. She has no relationship with the woman to speak of.

“Trixie is out of town,” Nigel adds. “Vancouver. Conference.” 

Who on earth is Trixie? She had no idea, either, that Andrea had kept Nigel close enough to be an emergency contact. 

A nurse interrupts. “You can come on back,” she says to Nigel. “We’re all done.”

He turns to follow immediately, as though he’s forgotten Miranda is there. When he stops in front of one of the curtained bays, she almost runs into him.

Andrea curled on her side on a narrow, uncomfortable-looking gurney. The rails have been raised on either side. Her cropped hair is matted and her skin is the color of milk. An IV drips sluggishly into a vein in her arm. Something tightens in Miranda’s chest, and she flashes back, suddenly, to another hospital room. Her mother, emaciated, retching into a basin. She’d even lost her eyelashes. Miranda sways, but there’s nothing to hold on to. 

Nigel drags a chair next to the gurney. “How are you?”

Andrea’s voice is thick, muffled. “If I say bad, will they stick more needles into me?”

“Miranda is here,” Nigel says, glancing up at Miranda.

She doesn’t move. “Cool.”

“They gave you something for pain?” His voice is clogged with worry, and it’s making Miranda’s anxiety exponentially worse.

“Ha.” Andrea curls tighter into a ball. “No. They don’t want to—they said they don’t want to make it—mask something?” She groans. “Don’t ask me, Nigel. I don’t know.”

She’s right. There’s no need to ask the patient. Miranda is already on her way to find a doctor. 

*

It turns out Andrea has meningitis. The viral kind, however, not the nasty bacterial sort that requires antibiotic intervention. The unsatisfactory nineteen-year-old playacting as physician assures Nigel and Miranda that the symptoms will resolve in “days to weeks” and that “supportive care” is all that is warranted. Miranda has the records sent to her personal physician and will not allow Andrea to sign any discharge paperwork.

“I’m taking up a bed.” Andrea’s words are still uncharacteristically sluggish. She’s been lying flat for far longer than the thirty minutes the adolescent doctor recommended after the spinal tap, but her expression is still shot through with pain. She has her hands over her eyes.

“Immaterial,” Miranda says, gazing at her phone as though this will make Dr. Farrukh respond more expeditiously.

Finally a text appears. _ Looks fine, I agree _.

Miranda briefly considers requesting the opinion of one of Dr. Farrukh’s neurology colleagues, but she _ has _ been Miranda’s physician for the better part of two decades. 

“Sign,” she says. She puts the pen in Andrea’s hand.

*

Andrea rides reclined in the front seat of the town car, Miranda nearly sideways behind her. 

“I’m shorter,” Nigel had pointed out. Miranda had ignored him.

“They said I’m fine to go home,” Andrea says, opening her eyes as they approach the RFK Bridge. Miranda ignores her, too.

*

Roy and Nigel maneuver Andrea up the stairs, despite Andrea’s protests that she can walk on her own. This seems to be generally untrue, as she half-collapses into bed in the room that used to be Cassidy’s. 

“Barf,” she says suddenly, urgently. Nigel displays remarkable fortitude for a man without children as he holds a garbage can under her chin.

*

“I can stay,” Nigel says, after he’s rinsed the garbage can and closed the door of Cassidy’s room.

“Nonsense.” Miranda has already made the necessary cancelations to her calendar for the evening and part of the following morning. “Seven percent. You have work to do.”

“I could have gotten him down to six,” Nigel grumbles as she ushers him out.

*

Miranda cracks the door every half hour, ensures Andrea has changed positions and continues to breathe. She works in the infrequently-used second floor office, her eyes flicking upward with every creak of the woodwork and rustle of the wind outside.

*

At three PM, when Miranda opens the door, Andrea wakes up. 

“You don’t have to do this,” she says, voice rough with sleep. Her cheeks are pink, her eyes so bright they’re almost glassy.

Her forehead smolders against the thin skin of Miranda’s inner wrist. She closes her eyes. “I’m fine,” she insists, but she lets Miranda help her sit up and accepts two tablets of Tylenol.

“You don’t have to—” she says again, when Miranda holds a glass of Gatorade to her lips. Has to sip to keep from spilling, and doesn’t finish her sentence.

*

_ Have you seen Andy _? 

Tuesdays are when Cassidy and Andrea meet at Starbucks. It’s past five-thirty, and Cassidy is a worrier. Miranda calls her.

_ “ _ What do you mean, _ meningitis _?” Cassidy snaps, and hangs up. Less than a half hour later, Miranda hears her slam the front door.

“Bobbsey—” Miranda starts, but Cassidy doesn’t even slow down. She takes the stairs two at a time. Miranda remembers, belatedly, that Cassidy studies brain cells.

*

Sound of footsteps upstairs, water running. More footsteps. The door is slightly open and Miranda can hear the anxious murmur of Cassidy’s voice, the softer hum of Andrea’s. 

Cassidy comes downstairs a few minutes later, looking considerably calmer. “She looks okay,” she says.

Miranda slides the hospital paperwork across the counter to her. She looks at it, makes a face. 

“If she gets too sleepy—or confused—” 

“I’ll bring her to the hospital immediately.” Miranda has already memorized the discharge instructions. 

Cassidy watches her for a moment. Something shifts in her expression. “I’ll sleep in Caroline’s room,” she says at last. 

The knot in Miranda’s chest loosens a little. She nods.

*

Cassidy sleeps like the dead and is utterly useless for checking on Andrea in the night, but Miranda is glad of her presence nonetheless. She herself is unable to keep from waking. Andrea has another fever at eleven.

“I took some Tylenol already,” Andrea says wanly, as Miranda’s hand slips from her forehead. She puts an arm over her eyes. “Wish they’d given me some of the good stuff for this headache.”

If Miranda had had a molecule of narcotic in the house, Andrea would already have it. She feels infuriatingly helpless at Andrea’s obvious misery. “Perhaps something to eat—”

“No. Ugh.” A visible shudder. Miranda confirms the proximity of the garbage can.

“Tea,” Miranda suggests, and after a moment, Andrea nods. 

Miranda’s mother used to make her chamomile tea when she was ill. She always thought it tasted like grass clippings, but she drank it anyway. For Andrea, Miranda selects peppermint. 

When she gets back to the third floor, she finds that Andrea has propped herself up on some of the throw pillows. Her eyes are closed. For a moment, Miranda hesitates—has she fallen asleep again?

Then the brown eyes open. “Hi.” Her voice a little clearer now. “The Tylenol kicked in, I think.”

Miranda places the mug into her outstretched hand. Steps back to go, but Andrea pats the bed beside her.

“Do you need—” Miranda starts, and Andrea shakes her head.

“Just company,” she says, and it feels strange and uncomfortable, but Miranda sits down beside her. Andrea has piled the remainder of the throw pillows on the other side of the bed. She leans, gingerly.

“I’d offer to share,” Andrea says with a thin smile, lifting the mug of tea in a little salute, “but I don’t think you want what I’ve got.”

Miranda looks at her hands. She will be fifty-six this November. The skin over her knuckles has begun to slacken, and a faint dark spot appeared by the crease of her wrist just last month. Andrea is certainly no older than thirty-five.

She cannot begin to care for this woman.

“Miranda.” 

Miranda looks at her. She’s still pale, but the pink fever-spots have faded from her cheeks, and she no longer looks like she’s in pain. The little smile is gone. She is all eyes. “Thank you,” she says.

Miranda feels heat creep up her neck and into her earlobes. She looks away. “It would have been irresponsible to send you home to an empty apartment,” she says, and she hopes her voice sounds as dispassionate as she intends. 

“Still,” Andrea says, and suddenly her hand is wrapped around Miranda’s. 

Miranda’s first thought is that Andrea’s fever is back, because her palm is absolutely scalding. She forgets to avert her eyes.

“Tea,” Andrea explains, lifting the hand for a moment. Then she lets it fall. It lands on Miranda’s wrist, her pinky brushing the age spot.

*

Cassidy helps Andrea to the bathroom to shower the next morning. “I can skip,” she had offered, and Andrea glared. 

“Don’t you dare,” she’d snapped.

“If you fall, I’m skipping.” Cassidy thumps the bathroom door for emphasis.

“I’m _ fine _,” Andrea shouts back over the sound of running water. Miranda hears all this from the office, where she is determinedly feigning disinterest. 

But Andrea’s footsteps across the room ten minutes later are slow and painful, and she can no longer pretend she is not listening. Cassidy is just closing the door when she steps onto the third floor landing. 

“Headache,” she says, her face pinched and worried.

“They did say it was expected.” Miranda says it with a confidence she does not feel. 

Cassidy gives her a black look. “They say a lot of things,” she says. “Keep an eye on her.”

Miranda can tell she would prefer to stay, and so ushers her toward the door with that much more emphasis. “I promise to call you if anything changes.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

*

More tea, and toast barely brushed with butter. Andrea picks at the crust but doesn’t eat. Miranda has brought her coffee with her. Sits in the desk chair, although Andrea has not asked her to stay.

Andrea puts her plate onto the nightstand and slides down in the bed until she is almost completely flat. One hand goes to the back of her neck, the other to her forehead. 

“This is,” she announces, eyes closed, “completely miserable.”

Miranda sets her coffee on the desk. Stands. Hesitates. Then sees Andrea’s grimace, and sits down on the bed beside her. She gently moves the hand that is clamped around Andrea’s forehead and replaces it with her own. 

The grimace relaxes, brow unfurrowing. 

Miranda strokes still-damp bangs back from Andrea’s forehead. Her reward: parted lips, a soft sigh. 

Miranda unravels.

She grits her teeth against it, but she can feel herself disintegrating, the pieces clattering in all directions like a fistful of dropped marbles. A thought strikes her, so sudden and horrifying, given the circumstance, that she loosens her jaw just long enough to wedge her tongue between her incisors. What, she wonders, would Andrea’s lips feel like pressed against hers?

Unaware of the maelstrom in her brain, her traitorous fingertips trace lines over Andrea’s temples.

*

“Trixie is home,” Andrea says that evening. 

Miranda cannot cancel another day of meetings. She’s already fallen so far behind that she will have to spend the majority of the weekend at the office. Brunch with the girls will have to be rescheduled. It is better that Andrea goes home.

“Roy will drive you.”

Miranda sees an odd expression flash across Andrea’s face. Then it vanishes, and she smiles instead. 

“Thank you for everything, Miranda.” Fervently. Miranda thinks that if she were standing closer, Andrea might reach for her hand. Might even try to hug her. 

Better, then, that she keeps her distance.

*

In the quiet of her empty house, Miranda strips the bed where Andrea slept. Inhales her unfamiliar scent, and feels strangely bereft.

***


End file.
